


It’s Over

by astridht



Series: CrankGameplays/Ethan Nestor [2]
Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Character Death, Loneliness, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Doubt, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27980697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astridht/pseuds/astridht
Summary: Not everyone can be helped.
Series: CrankGameplays/Ethan Nestor [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1966696
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	It’s Over

**Author's Note:**

> This work is published creatively and is not a reflection, accurate depiction of nor intended in disrespect towards the persons mentioned; their friends; their family or their romantic partners. Please do not send this work to any of the aforementioned persons and remember to treat people with kindness.
> 
> \- Astrid

He couldn’t find the rope. He had looked everywhere. The pill bottles were empty, at least the ones left in his house. By “the ones left”, he means his friends that had taken them from him the last time he tried something funny. They didn’t care that he needed the medicine for his multiple actual diagnosis, rather him be crazy than dead right? Right?

 _”Fuck!”_ He kicked the door to his storage room, the loud stomping, heavy breathing and yelling. Thank god no one was here. None of the neighbours seem to mind either, maybe they can’t hear him, or maybe they just didn’t want to. Understandable.

The silence was so loud, every creak in the floorboard, every rustle of something moving and the howling wind was ringing in his ears.   
  


He had woken up that day, with the full intent to end the overdue process which was living, breathing, existing, taking up space that someone much more influential, attractive and an overall good person could use. He had uploaded a video and streamed for about an hour, he wasn’t completely sure as the numbers on his devices were blending together, turning into one big black hole, he felt like he was about to be sucked into this concept that was time. _God, why does everything feel connected to that fucking channel? It’s over._ Has been for a long time.

His subscribers had not seemed to catch onto his unusual behaviour. He had practiced his facade, his “everything is totally fine, I’m as happy as could be” mask that he had put in for the last couple of months. Quarantine fucked nearly everyone up, some more than others.

A couple of people had asked why he stopped after only about an hour, but he didn’t address it, saying his goodbyes and ending the twitch stream. His friends were streaming too. Brian was streaming among us along with Alanah, and Mark, Bob and Wade were making their 70th episode of “3 Peens in a Pod”. Crazy bastards...

When he came into the bathroom Spencer was laying on the floor. He could sense it, or maybe he just noticed the young man’s puffy eyes and face.

 _”Out.”_ He commanded and pointed at the open bathroom door, his tone flat, he didn’t sound like himself. Anyone from outside would think that a stranger had broken in.

Spencer whimpered.

 _“Out!”_ He cried. Tears running down his face like fucking Niagara Falls. The problem was that Spencer wouldn’t leave. That’s what anyone else would call a loyal companion, and he might’ve thought the same if things had been different, but they weren’t. He breathed for a second looking over at his mirror above the sink. It didn’t even take 5 seconds before it was on the floor in a thousand pieces, every inch covered in sand-like shards of glass. Spencer yelped as the glass hit his tiny body, the fur mostly saving him from thousands of cuts, but not being too effective on his face or paws as he screamed when he ran over the glass and out the door. The young man was wearing shoes, so he leapt towards the door to lock it, keeping his “son” Spencer out.

He opened the cabinet next to the sink and pulled out his razor. Normally he would just look longingly at the sharp, double sided razor blade and then put it back, or proceed to shave his face. He opened up the razor to pull out the blade, cutting himself on his index finger in the process, but he didn’t even realise. He slid his foot against the floor, sweeping it mostly free of big glass shards and sitting down. The floor felt ice cold against his black Soft Boi joggers.

The blade glistened in the warm yellow light of his bathroom, it wasn’t super clean. Traces of shaving cream, hair, dead skin and oils were smeared on the whole thing. Not like it mattered anyway. He was a wearing a T-shirt, it was the “000:00:00:00” Unus Annus one, the black one obviously. Time had run out he guessed. Maybe it had been for a long time.

He slid the blade across his pale freckled skin. Just lightly, just barely, he was “scoring” his skin you might say. A mere couple of seconds later he was finding himself tracing his tattoo with the blade, pressing down harder and harder with every inch he moved. He couldn’t feel anything other than lightheaded-niss. The sight of his own dark red blood covering up his most recent upside down tattoo, making him realise that if he had gotten a dark red ink instead of black, there would’ve been no difference. It was comforting. It was probably a very small percentage of the world that would call the sight of their own blood comforting, he just happened to be one of them.  
So many people would love to be found like this, dreaming of watching their friends and family mourn their death, crushes confess their love to them way too late, abusive parents wondering where they went wrong.   
  


Blood started dripping onto his joggers.

  
He giggled, he giggled exactly like a toddler who had just accomplished something, like building a 3-block talk tower and tipping it over after.   
It reminded him of the blood bath video. No matter how much he had come to hate the now ended, 1 year project that was Unus Annus, there were moments, moments that were reminiscing in his mind. 

Then everything was black. No light. No hand reaching out to him, no sound. Just pure darkness and deafening silence.

Ethan Mark Nestor-Darling was dead.   
  


No one knew. No one that could speak anyway.

3 days passed. No one had heard anything from Ethan.

That was until the police showed up at Mark Fischbach and Amy Nelson’s front door with some unfortunate news.


End file.
